In a rare flash of existentialism, the bluestreak cleaner wrasse felt the characteristic pang of futility. Did it clean simply for food, slowly swimming through life in a survivalistic haze? Perhaps the grouper it had been cleaning at that very nihilistic moment would go on to eat the fish it loved. Perhaps the next would go on and save the life of a drifting refugee. Did it even really matter? The reef was dying, a depressing grey crawling towards the wrasse’s puny existence. Yet, as with all empty feelings, it faded. How unfortunate, then, that a shark ate the grouper.